The Nights Your Heart Shivers
by StarSpray
Summary: "All right, hunting down Daeron the Minstrel: that sounds like fun. But where would we even begin to look for him?"
1. Chapter 1

Written for the Silmarillion Writer's Guild October 2018 "B-Movie Horror" themed Matryoshka challenge.

* * *

 _for the nights your heart shivers_  
 _apart with loneliness:_

 _you are strong, you are light_

 _all the world is contained in you._

micro poetry 005 - a.s.w. (avolitorial on tumblr)

.

Summer in Imladris was always lovely. The whole valley smelled of pine and wildflowers, and there was always singing beneath the stars and down by the water, and the mountains and many streams kept the summer heat from growing too oppressive.

Eluréd lay beside one of the streams with his eyes closed, listening to some bees busy at some nearby flowers, and someone attempting to wrangle a couple of goats a little farther off. It was not going well, judging by the cursing. But even that poor person's frustration could not mar the peace of the day; overhead a lark sang, and a bluebird answered. He sighed and stretched, before letting all his muscles go slack; he was not particularly tired, but there was nothing like a nap on a lazy summer afternoon…

"Oh, there you are!" Eluréd opened his eyes to find Nellas smiling down at him. "Where is Elurín?" she asked, sinking down beside him and crossing her legs. A breeze picked up, sending dappled sunlight dancing across her face and catching her eyes so they flashed like green-gold gems.

"I have no idea," Eluréd said. "There was some talk of blackberries I think, earlier, but I wasn't really listening. When did you arrive?"

"This morning," Nellas said. "I came with Lady Celebrían."

"Oh, she's here?" Eluréd stretched again and folded his arms behind his head. "She'll be disappointed. Elrond left three days ago."

"That's what Erestor said. Off to Lindon for some business with Gil-galad, or Círdan, or someone. Celebrían said that's quite all right, as she has plans to redesign one of the gardens and intends to surprise him with it." Nellas plucked a few flowers to begin weaving together. "I feel as though I haven't seen you in a thousand years, Eluréd. What have you been up to, since returning from sea?"

"Since then we've been here, mostly," Eluréd said after a moment's thought. They had sailed up and down the coast a while, after exploring Himling and Tol Fuin. They'd looked for Tol Morwen, but hadn't found it, which was disappointing but not terribly surprising—navigation at sea was rather different than on land, and Eluréd honestly counted them lucky to have made it back to Lindon without capsizing. He had a vague idea of going out again someday to try to find Tol Morwen again, or to explore Himling more thoroughly, but there wasn't much hurry. After returning to the mainland, they had seen Nellas briefly before she departed Lindon carrying messages to Elrond and then to Galadriel and Celeborn, and visited with Círdan for a while and been introduced to Gil-galad, who had unfortunately been warned beforehand who they were, and so they had missed whatever surprised reacting he had had. And then they'd come back to Imladris, after a quick stop to say hello to old Iarwain, and here they had stayed—it had been a century or so, but the wandering itch seemed to have left them, and they hadn't felt any particular desire to leave, aside from a few jaunts into the mountains to hunt.

"Really?" Nellas looked surprised. "I don't think you've ever stayed in one place so long!"

"Then I suppose we were overdue for a long rest," Eluréd said. "And if one had to choose one place in Middle-earth to stay put—well, Imladris is the best, I think. But I'm sure this won't last. Elurín mentioned the Long Lake last week; we might go see what's changed up there once Elrond gets back." He rolled onto his stomach to look at Nellas properly. "Would you like to come with us?"

"Actually," she said, plucking another flower to add to her growing garland, "I've been thinking, since you told me about finding Maglor Fëanorion on that island…"  
"What about him?"

"Oh, not about him, exactly. But I was thinking about the song you told me about, that he sang for you about Valinor."

Eluréd sat up. "You aren't going to sail West, are you?"

"No!" Nellas shoved at his arm. "Let me finish, will you? They say that Maglor's the greatest singer of the Noldor, and that's all very well—but there is another singer even greater."

"Daeron, you mean," Eluréd said. He lay back down on the grass. "That's from the _Lay of Leithian_ , I know. _And Daeron, mightiest of the three._ Though no one ever talks about Tinfang Gelion, whoever he is."

"Oh, he was one of the Vanyar, born just before the Great Journey. Círdan told me. I imagine he's piping away somewhere in Valinor as we speak; perhaps he's related to that Elemmírë that Maglor told you about." Nellas waved a hand. "But Daeron never went West!"

"The rumors all say he's found some dark hollow in an ancient forest somewhere to sing laments for Lúthien for the rest of time," Eluréd said.

"Yes, and the officially recorded histories imply you are very dead."

"That's true. All right, hunting down Daeron the Minstrel: that sounds like fun. But where would we even begin to look for him?"

"I haven't the faintest idea!" Nellas said cheerfully. "We can start by looking at maps, I suppose." She sobered. "I was very fond of Daeron," she said. "Everyone was. He gave me a wooden flute for my begetting day one year when I was a child, and taught me to play; I wish I still had it. He wasn't _only_ the singer who followed Lúthien around like a lovesick puppy—and really he didn't even do much of that. He was a loremaster, he invented the Cirth—he was very friendly with Dwarves; sometimes I think that if he had been there, Thingol would not have been killed."

"I'm not sure Daeron would have made much difference, with the Silmaril," Eluréd said.

"Maybe." Nellas finished her flower garland and set it on Eluréd's head. "Shall we go raid the library for maps?"

"Oh, no." Eluréd laughed as he sat up again, adjusting the garland so it would not fall off. "We can use Elrond's study. There's a map on the wall that we needn't go digging for."

"Excellent! But first we should find your brother."

They found Elurín playing hide-and-seek with some children up in the fir trees; the game had just come to an end with the lot of them tackling him to the ground, all of them shouting with laughter. The children scattered when someone—presumably one of their mothers—called for them, and Elurín sat up, pine-needles sticking out of his hair. "You look like a hedgehog," Eluréd informed him, bending down to pluck a tiny pine cone from one of the snarls.

"I lost," Elurín said. He held out his hands, and Eluréd hauled him to his feet. "Hullo, Nellas! When did you get here?"

"This morning," Nellas replied.

"Oh—I thought I saw Lady Celebrían. Too bad Elrond's off hunting for Maglor."

Eluréd raised his eyebrows. "I thought he had business with Gil-galad."

"Don't you remember, he went off to sail to Himling the moment we told him who we saw there? Apparently he found the place empty, and he's been going back to hunt along the coast every few years since. I think he might make liars of us, by the time he finds him."

"Liars?" Nellas asked.

"We told him Elrond would probably not punch him," Eluréd explained.

"But if Maglor keeps dodging him," Elurín said, "I think he'll come to see the end of Elrond's patience."

"I can't imagine Elrond punching anyone," Nellas said after a moment of consideration.

"You haven't seen him in wartime," Eluréd said. He turned to Elurín, "Anyway, you should go wash the sap out of your hair. Nellas wants to go hunting for more long-lost minstrels."

Nellas rolled her eyes. "Only for Daeron. You make it sound as though there are hordes of famous singers out there."

"Oh!" Elurín's eyes lit up. "Excellent! When do we leave?"

"When we have a good idea of where to start looking," Nellas said. "We're going to look at Elrond's maps; you'd best try to avoid tracking pine needles into his study."

"Elrond wouldn't mind a few pine needles."

"He might object to sap all over the upholstery. And we wouldn't want him to punch you."

Eluréd and Nellas went to Elrond's study while Elurín went to wash and change his clothes. The map hung on the wall, all the lines sharp and clear as though it was freshly painted. Eluréd sank into a chair to look up at it. He was fond of maps, though he preferred the real things. This map still had Eregion and Ost-in-Edhil marked on it, a little eight-pointed star where the city had once stood. Eluréd and Elurín had given the place a wide berth since the war. He supposed it would be nearly overgrown by now…

"Well, where will we begin our search?" he asked Nellas, who stood looking at the map with her head tilted to one side. She had left her hair loose that day, falling in a cascade of chestnut-colored curls down her back. "Not the Greenwood, not Lórinand. I doubt he's anywhere in Eriador; we've all three of us been all over it. And Iarwain would have mentioned him."

"No," Nellas agreed, "we'll have to go further east. I can't imagine Daeron wandering past the Misty Mountains, but if he still lives, I suppose he must have. And of course, if he is dead we shall never know until we past into the West ourselves." She crossed her arms. "We could ask the Ents!" she said. "Or the Entwives!"

"Where's old Fangorn these days?" Eluréd asked.

"I have no idea. I haven't seen him since before the war; he was visiting Fimbrethil at the same time I passed by."

Elurín joined them before long, and it was decided easily: they would go to see Fimbrethil and the Entwives, and then perhaps they would go looking for Fangorn. There was a tangled stretch of ancient forest near the southern end of the Misty Mountains that none of them had explored yet, and if Daeron were anywhere in the western world, he was as likely to be there as anywhere else. Either way, the Ents would know.

When they left a week later, wanderlust overtaking all three of them so that they decided not to wait for Elrond to return; Celebrían saw them off. "Good luck!" she called, standing on her toes to wave at them. "I hope you find him!"

They took the High Pass over the Mountains, dodging a couple of stone giants playing catch with boulders, and found a party of Green Elves out of the Greenwood by the Anduin with boats and fishing nets. Nellas explained to them their errand, but no one had heard of any wandering singers, although they had of course heard of Daeron of Doriath, and were excited by the idea that he might possibly be found. There was room on their boats for a few passengers, and so Eluréd, Elurín, and Nellas went with them back down the river, though they declined an invitation to visit Amon Lanc. Instead they left the river and continued south and east, toward the Entwives' gardens.

As they passed through the Woodman's settlements just south of the forest, however, Eluréd started to feel unsettled. The people were nervous, and everyone shut and locked their doors tightly at night—not unusual, in this part of the world, but there was something about the extra care that spoke of some change, some new danger; there were reports of some strange illness as well, that had killed several people, though whether it was related to the new fear none would say. "Something is not right," Elurín murmured as they stepped into an inn, ducking beneath the swinging sign of a cat with its back arched and tail sticking up, yellow paint peeling.

But no one could tell them what the trouble was. Something lurking in the darkness, they said. Something cold. Something terrible. But Eluréd felt nothing outside when he peered out of the window of the room he and Elurín shared that night. He sensed no danger in the shadows cast by the pale half-moon hanging in the sky. Whatever had frightened the people was gone. "Not orcs," Eluréd said. "Not wargs." Those were frightening, but at least there were words to describe them. And the Elves would have heard something, surely. Though…surely they should have heard about whatever this was.

"Perhaps we should have gone to Amon Lanc," Elurín said after a little while. "Oropher might have known something."

"We still could," Eluréd said. "We could leave in the morning. It would take a few days…"

"I don't know…" Elurín sat on his bed, chewing at a thumbnail. "Whatever it is, it seems to have come from the south. Do you think it would affect the Entwives the same way?"

"They may at the very least have more of an idea of what it is." Trees and Ents and Entwives saw the world differently—saw more, sometimes, than Men or Elves.

They left the town the next morning, moving swiftly south and angling east. The lands were lush and green, and grew more and more orderly as they went. It took several more days to reach the Entwives' homes at the heart of their fruit-laden orchards. A slender enting with apple blossoms in her leafy hair greeted them joyfully, swaying in the breeze by a small stream. She sang out her hellos, and the sound brought a pair of Entwives striding through the orchards and fields to see them. One of them was old Fimbrethil, with hair bleached white-gold by the sun. She was bent like a tree in strong wind, but her cheeks were rosy as cherries, and her eyes deep and cool and green, wells of memory and knowledge. "Ah, young Nellas, and the twins," she said. "It has been a long time since you wandered to our gardens."

"It is good to see you, Fimbrethil," Nellas said, as Eluréd and Elurín bowed. "But we have heard troubling things in our travels. Can you tell us what has the woodmen to the north so afraid?"

"Ahh…" Fimbrethil exchanged a look with her companion, who shook her head slowly. The enting ceased her singing and swaying and shrank into Fimbrethil's side. "Evil things are coming out of the Black Land. Worse than orcs, though they do not hack and burn bough and field. We heard their cries on the wind. Freezes the sap, it does."

"What sort of cries?" Elurín asked. "Are they beast, or…?"

"Something worse, we fear," said Fimbrethil's companion, but the Entwives either could not or would not say more.

"We need to send word to the Greenwood, and to Lórinand," Nellas said later, as they wandered through rows of strawberries, the fruit fat and red. The Entwives delighted to have visitors partake of the fruits of their labor, so they had woven a simple basket from reeds by one of the many streams, though Eluréd was eating more than he put into it, each bite a burst of crisp, sweet flavor on his tongue.

"Eluréd and I have been thinking about that," Elurín said. "But what can Oropher do? Or even Galadriel? You cannot prepare for something if you do not know what it is."

"You can avoid being taken by surprise," Nellas said. "I'm going to see if I can find a lark or a thrush or something, to take a message north." She handed the basket to Elurín and slipped away through some flowering bushes.

They spent several weeks with the Entwives, with no sign of anything amiss. No word came back to them from the north after Nellas found a couple of birds willing to take messages. It was so pleasant there in the wide orchards and flowering gardens that Eluréd nearly forgot that cold sense of fear they had encountered before. The sun shone brightly by day, the breezes blowing fresh and clean; by night the stars burned brightly, and the moon was waxing full, silver-bright. They sang silly songs for the entings, and laughed when the Entwives shook their heads and smiled. They asked also if the Entwives had ever encountered Daeron of Doriath, out here in the east, a sad minstrel singing songs of lost princesses or drowned kingdoms.

They had not, but Fimbrethil said perhaps the Ents had. Daeron was one for woven trees and shadowy dells, not neat orchards and orderly gardens. There were many Ents wandering the woods south of the Celebrant, beside the mountains. Some wandered up into Lórinand or the Greenwood, but the woods were Elves dwelt were less wild in many ways, less in need of shepherding. Already the forest was being called Fangorn by Elves and Men, for the eldest of Ents that had come to call it home. Perhaps old Fangorn himself could tell them more.

So, having rested and refreshed themselves, they accepted gifts of fruit to take with them, and departed from the Entwives' gardens, heading back east to the Ents' wild forests. They had to go north again to find a good ford across the Anduin, and then they had to decide whether to follow the Limlight's northern shore or to cross it also and enter the woods farther south. "Let's cross," said Eluréd, after several minutes of debate. "It isn't wide; we can shoot an arrow across and use a rope bridge."

"It isn't wide," Nellas agreed, "but it is deep here, and the current is strong."

"Oh, it could be worse," Elurín said, exchanging a grin with Eluréd. "It could be a flash flood in a rainy canyon. We'll be all right."

Nellas frowned at them, but agreed to the rope bridge. It was easy enough, and they had done it hundreds of times before. "Hurry up, then," she said as Elurín strung his bow. "It will be dark soon, and it's a cloudy evening."

Even in the growing darkness Elurín's aim was true, and his arrow stuck deep into the stump of an old dead tree across the water. He tugged hard on the rope to be sure, and then tied it off. "After you, Nellas," he said, with an extravagant bow, sweeping out his hand. Nellas rolled her eyes, but smiled as she jumped onto the makeshift bridge and darted across, as light footed as though she were running through the boughs of trees. Elurín looked at Eluréd, who gestured at him to go first, and so he followed her.

As soon as Elurín's feet hit solid ground, Eluréd jumped onto the rope to make his own way across. But as he neared the middle of the river a loud cry echoed up the river. There were words in it that he did not understand, but they hit him like a physical blow, and his foot missed the rope. For one tiny part of a second he hung suspended in the air, before time seemed to speed up again and he was scrambling for the rope and missing. Elurín shouted something, but his words were drowned by the river that filled Eluréd's ears as he hit the surface and sank, yanked under by the current as though it had hands to grasp his ankles. His lungs burned with too much water and not enough air, and as he tumbled head over heels he could not tell which way was up. And it was dark—so dark, beneath the water, where the dim evening light could not reach.

He had not fallen from a rope bridge since he had been a child just learning, on the banks of the shallow and lazy Withywindle. Goldberry had been there to catch him, then, or else the River-woman had been kind enough not to drag him under and away, and Iarwain had laughed away all frustrations and called tiny silver fish to tickle his toes. But the Limlight did not know him, and did not care.

Somehow he managed to get his head above water once or twice to take a gulp of air before being dragged back under, until the current eased as the Limlight widened, drawing closer to its joining with the Anduin. Then Eluréd was able to claw his way to the surface and stay there, coughing and gasping, as he tried once again to get his bearings. He did not know if it was the northern or southern shore that was closest, nor did he care; he kicked his way towards it until his knees hit the ground and he was able to crawl the rest of the way onto the muddy bank. He retched up water and coughed up more, feeling as though his whole body were one giant bruise. Once he was out of the water he collapsed, rolling with a groan onto his back to stare up at the starless sky. At least it was summer, and the night was warm…yet he still felt cold, a chill that had sunk into him like a barbed arrow, and Eluréd found himself trembling.

After what felt like hours, but was more likely only a few minutes, he rolled over again and got to his hands and knees. He took up his pack and dragged it farther up the bank, out of the mud and onto clean grass. He needed to find Elurín. He needed to build a fire. There was a copse of trees nearby, a darker shadow against the sky in the gloom, but he was shaking too badly to cut wood, and anyway his tinderbox was soaked. So was his blanket, and probably his extra clothes. Eluréd gave up on reaching the copse, and flopped onto the grass. It tickled his cheek and caught on his hair.

The longer he lay there, the worse he felt. The cold only got worse, even as he started to dry off, and it took much longer than it should have to Eluréd to realize that he wasn't just cold and tired: he was afraid. Once he realized what it was, he knew why it felt familiar, though it had been a very long time since he known fear such as this—not since Menegroth had burned and he and Elurín had been carried by rough hands out of the caves and dumped into the snow, where they had been in real danger of succumbing to cold and despair before Nellas had found them.

And now he was utterly alone, and he did not even know what it was he was afraid of. Eluréd sat up, balling his hands into fists to try to stop their shaking as he looked around. There was movement near the tree copse. Something darker than the tree-shadows, something that sent a chill down his spine. It was a something that was there and yet not there, alive and yet not alive, with a power he did not know or understand. He squinted at it, shifting his senses, and for a moment he saw the thing as it truly was—and he could see that there was more than one. Two were moving forward from the trees, slowly, only a single step every few minutes. They had the form of old men, with crowns upon shrunken heads, clad in tattered robes of faded grey, but with a fell light in their eyes; one reached toward him with a skeletal hand. He blinked again, and saw nothing but darkness.

There was something of Sauron here. He recognized the feel of it now, remembered it from those long years of war in Eriador. But neither of them were Sauron himself—thank all the Valar—only his servants. Eluréd got to his feet, swallowing past a suddenly dry mouth. He had never faced anything like these wraiths before—he had never faced anything alone. Elurín had always been there at his side, but he was somewhere upstream, perhaps not even on the same side of the river. The wraiths were still advancing, still pressing fear upon him like a heavy weight. He took a step backwards, and tripped over his pack so he sprawled again on the grass. He fumbled for his bow, but couldn't make his fingers stop shaking long enough to string it. He had his knives, but they would do no good against wraiths. He would do no good against them—how did you fight an enemy you couldn't touch? How—

For just a moment, the clouds overhead parted, and looking up he could see the stars, and among them the brightest of all, Gil-Estel, the Silmaril that Lúthien and Beren had won. Lúthien…she had faced worse than this and had needed neither sword nor bow. Eluréd got to his feet again, and summoning fury to overtake the fear. How dare these wraiths try to use the darkness against him, a scion of Lúthien who had worn shadows as a cloak? How dare they try to sap his will, he a child of Elu Thingol Lord of Beleriand, and Melian the Maia whose Girdle had kept even Morgoth at bay, a child of Beren whose name had put fear into the hearts of Morgoth's servants? He knew how to counter the Shadow, though they had nearly made him forget, and it was with words of Light.

 _A Elbereth Gilthoniel,_  
 _silivren penna míriel_  
 _o menel aglar elenath!_

His voice rang out in the gloaming as he put into it all of the power that lay within him—of Elves and Men and Maiar—and the clouds overhead parted again, breaking into tatters, the stars blazing down upon the river and the grass and the trees, gilding them with silver in the evening, as though Elbereth herself had heard and was answering his cry. The breeze turned from east to west, and the wraiths fled, crying out with cold voices, but powerless against the name of Elbereth.

When they were gone, Eluréd fell to his knees. He was spent, and he was cold and wet, still, and though the wind had broken up the clouds it also cut right through him. He looked up to the stars, and fancied that Gil-Estel winked at him. "Thank you," he murmured.

He sat for quite a long time there in the grass by the river, watching the starlight on the water, and shivering. He was too tired to do anything about it, and he did not fancy moving into the shelter of the trees even now that the wraiths were gone. Elurín and Nellas found him there at last, both of them out of breath from their race down the river.

"Eluréd!" Elurín fell to his knees, skidding forward as he threw his arms around Eluréd. "Thank Elbereth!"

Eluréd leaned into his brother, relief making him feel light-headed. "What took you so long?" he asked, trying to speak lightly. It didn't work.

"The current was stronger and faster than we thought." Nellas crouched beside him, stroking a hand over his hair. "What happened?"

"I found out what's scaring the woodmen," Eluréd said. "Wraiths. Out of Mordor. There's something—I wish we knew their number…"

"How many attacked you?" Elurín asked, his grip around Eluréd's shoulders tightening.

"Two. They're gone now."

"And they won't be coming back, after that," Nellas said. "We could hear you over a mile upstream. We'll camp in these trees. I'll get the fire started." She picked up Eluréd's sodden pack and made her way over to the little copse.

"Come on." Elurín hauled Eluréd to his feet. "Are you all right?" he asked. "Truly."

"I think so," Eluréd said. "I'm—very cold."

"That will be from falling in the river," Elurín said, and grinned. "We'll cross on a rope bridge, you said, a wonderful idea to be sure."

"It would have been, were it not for those wraiths," Eluréd said, too cold and too tired for banter; he had started to shiver again. "It was their cries that—it felt like something struck me."

Elurín sobered. "I know," he said. "I felt it too."

The tree-shadows did not seem quite so sinister once Nellas had the fire going. She built it up high, so it blazed bright and hot against the night, as she spread out all of Eluréd's things to dry. Elurín loaned him his extra set of clothes and his blanket for the night. But he could not seem to get warm. Elurín wrapped him up in his cloak, and Nellas contributed her blanket, but a chill seemed to have wormed its way into Eluréd's core. He felt as though he were drifting away, caught up in another current that was dragging him away again, this time to darker places. The fire dimmed, the shadows grew longer. The stars grew pale and wan.

Perhaps he had fallen asleep, and was dreaming. Everything was very dark, all around him, and he was alone again. "Elurín!" he called, but he could hardly hear his own voice. "Elurín, where are you?" There was a dark path stretched before him, and he was being tugged by cold fingers farther into the darkness. Almost he thought he could hear someone calling for him at the end of it, someone whose voice he did not know, that sounded like Doom.

Then another, louder voice called to him. "Eluréd! Dior's son, return to us!" And there was music, and other words not spoken but sung, of light and warmth and starlight on sweetly enchanted waters, and he could hear Elurín calling to him also, Power threaded through his voice. In the dream, if it was a dream, the words wove together to form a bright golden rope that fell down into Eluréd's hands. He grasped it, and let it pull him up and out of the dark, away from that other voice calling him away over the Sea.

He opened his eyes to sunlight through green leaves; he lay on a bed of fragrant ferns beneath a large old oak tree. A breeze whispered through the boughs overhead, making the sunlight dance across his face. Birds called to one another in the trees. And beside him knelt Elurín, looking pale and with dark circles beneath his eyes, and on his other side was the other singer, more powerful than Elurín, with Eluréd's own small harp in his hands, and with old old starlight in his eyes. Eluréd frowned at him; it all still felt very dreamlike. "Where is your ferny crown, Daeron?" he asked.


	2. Chapter 2

Daeron was not quite what Eluréd had expected. All the tales had painted a picture of a lonely and melancholy singer with long dark hair and sad eyes, somewhere in the shade of the trees, perhaps by a mere or a stream, playing that famous 'music for the breaking of the heart.' But in reality, though there were plenty of trees for shade and a clear stream running through the glade that Daeron called home, there was very little darkness or melancholy at all. Daeron was serious, but Eluréd thought that was only because of the news Nellas and Elurín had told him about the wraiths. And he did not seem particularly bothered by Eluréd and Elurín's presence, though they were the grandchildren of Beren and Lúthien.

But after Eluréd was awake and recovering from whatever spells the wraiths had laid on him, the talk turned to why Nellas and Eluréd and Elurín were in that part of the world in the first place. "Looking for me?" Daeron repeated after the tale was told. "I'm not sure if I am flattered or a bit insulted that you only thought of it after you found Maglor Fëanorion."

"Well, we weren't _looking_ for him," said Elurín as he sorted through a small pile of fallen branches he had picked up, before choosing one to whittle at.

"And I _have_ been wondering where you had got to," said Nellas. She sat cross-legged among the ferns; if they were not all sitting close together she would have been nearly invisible among them, like a fawn lying very still. "Have you been hiding here in Fangorn this whole time?"

"No," Daeron laughed. "I got hopelessly turned around when I tried to follow Lúthien—it was the Girdle, I think—and I found myself going east instead of north. And then I thought—well, that's not important. I decided to just keep going. Maybe I would even make it so far as Cuiviénen. I didn't, of course, but I went quite far into the east and spent time with the Avari there. There are mighty singers there, and I learned much. I daresay some of them could out-sing even Maglor."

" _You_ could out-sing Maglor," said Nellas.

"It's in all the tales," agreed Eluréd. He lay on his back, basking in the sun and relishing the feeling of warmth. Daeron made a dubious-sounding noise. "You could sing us something and we could compare," Eluréd added. "We had Maglor sing for us on Tol Himling. It was very impressive."

"What did he sing?" Daeron asked.

"A song out of Valinor," said Elurín. "He said it was written by Elemmírë of the Vanyar."

"Very impressive," Eluréd repeated. He closed his eyes, listening to the quiet scrape of Elurín's knife over the wood, and the rustle of the breeze in the trees and through the ferns and grass.

"Perhaps I will sing for you," said Daeron. He sounded amused, but only for a moment before growing serious again. "I am more worried about those creatures you encountered by the river. You are not their first victim, it seems."

"No," said Nellas. "There are tales of fear among the woodmen, and even the Entwives are worried. We were coming to Fangorn to ask the Ents if they had seen you—we did not actually think to find you here—but I was hoping also they might know more than Fimbrethil about what these things are."

"I don't think they do," said Daeron. "Wraiths like those are not the province of Ents and it is doubtful they will attempt to do anything to the forest."

"No," Nellas said, "there are orcs for that. The best thing is to return to Lórinand or to Imladris—or both places—to warn Galadriel and Celeborn and Elrond about it. And Gil-galad, of course, but Elrond can send a messenger from Imladris. Whatever they are, they are a new creature of the Enemy's. There can be no doubt about that."  
Daeron's voice was wry when he said, "And I suppose you want me to come back to Lórinand and Imladris with you?"

"Only if you want to," said Nellas. "But you are missed, you know. Not only because you are a great singer and loremaster."

"Thank you, Nellas. Maybe I will come. But first I would know more of these creatures."

"How are you going to do that?" Elurín asked.

"I am going to find one. Don't look at me like that, Nellas. I know what to expect, thanks to you. I will not be taken by surprise as you were—and if I can out-sing Maglor Fëanorion as you claim, I can certainly hold my own against a wraith."

"There isn't only one, though," said Elurín. "There were—how many, Eluréd?"

"Two that I saw," said Elurín, and he described what he had glimpsed—figures of old men with crowns on their heads and tattered robes, shrunken and skeletal. He shivered, even in the warm sun. Briefly, Elurín rested a hand on his shoulder.

"I can hold my own against two wraiths," said Daeron. "Perhaps more."

"I will go with you, then," said Nellas. "You will need someone to watch your back. There aren't _only_ wraiths out there."

"We will come to," said Eluréd, opening his eyes and sitting up. Daeron had risen to his feet, a dark shape against the bright sky when Eluréd looked up at him.

"Absolutely not," Nellas began.

"There's no point in running away," said Elurín. "If these are the Enemy's new weapon we will meet them again. I would rather we do it on our own terms." Eluréd nodded. "Besides, we have power of our own."

"Clumsy as you are with it," Daeron said.

"Then you can teach us!" Eluréd said. "Who better?"

Daeron laughed. It was a bright sound like a burst of birdsong on a spring morning. "Very well! I will teach you. It is the least I can do, for Lúthien's sake."

They did not leave the glade or the forest immediately. Eluréd still needed some time to recover his strength. Nights were the worst, especially when clouds covered the stars or the moon. It was infuriating—the darkness and the shadows had never before held any terror for him. He had wrapped himself up in them like Lúthien's shadow-cloak from the songs, and he had felt safe. But now every shadow seemed to hold something sinister, something cold, and there was whispering all through his dreams that had him waking many times at night, trembling and freezing from the sweat cooling on his skin.

Elurín woke each time Eluréd did. He wrapped his arms around Eluréd and they lay curled up together, as they had when they were children, until Eluréd stopped shaking. "We don't have to go hunting these things," Elurín whispered. "We can go back to Imladris."

"No," Eluréd whispered back. "I will conquer this—or else I shall fear the night for ever. Sauron shall not win this battle."

In daylight Daeron sat them down to teach them. Nellas had taught them a great deal, and they had learned also from Goldberry and Iarwain, and from their own experience. It had been enough to get by, but Daeron despaired of their musical knowledge, and Nellas had to leave so that she did not distract them by bursting into laughter every time Daeron glared at her for neglecting some point or other. And when he found out they were barely literate Daeron had to bury his face in his hands for several minutes.

"Well, that's not entirely true," Elurín protested. "We can read runes just fine."

"If it's just directions on a stone or something," said Eluréd. "They're much easier than the tengwar."

"We haven't had much use for writing long letters," said Elurín. "Or reading them."

The nights were growing cool with the coming autumn by the time they departed Fangorn. They met the old Ent himself, going in the same direction with the intention of visiting Fimbrethil and the Entwives. He seemed troubled at the news of the strange wraiths lurking by the river, but had no insights. The Ents were not often taken into account by the Enemy, and they liked it that way. It was trouble for Elves and Men, he said, in his slow ponderous voice. But he wished them luck when they parted, he to go to the north and they to the south and east. It was impossible to know where they might find the wraiths. Nellas said flatly that if they had fled all the way back to Mordor she was going to drag Daeron to Imladris by his ear, rather than let him follow. Elurín heartily agreed.

"Of course I'm not going to go all the way to Mordor," said Daeron with a roll of his eyes.

"You were prepared to go all the way to Angband," Nellas replied. "Remember?"

"I like to think I have grown out of such follies."

In the end they did not have to worry about even coming within sight of Mordor. On an evening as they approached the place where the Limlight met the Anduin the wind changed to the east, and Eluréd shivered. "I think they are close," he said. Elurín moved closer to him. "On this side of the river."

Daeron looked at him, and Nellas said, "Then we'll make camp here. It's as good a place as any." They picked a spot near the water, the sound of its rushing a comfort in the silence that fell with the evening. If any animals had been around, they fled at the coming of the wraiths. Not even an owl or a bad passed by over their heads. Eluréd and Elurín gathered firewood quickly, and Nellas caught a couple of fish from the river, while Daeron laid out the camp. He sang as he did so, a quiet song of Doriath, of starlight on the enchanted waters of the Esgalduin and niphredil blooming on its banks. It was a comforting song, and Eluréd sat down to get the fire started feeling less cold and less afraid.

It did not last long. As the night grew darker, and they finished their meal, Eluréd could feel the creeping dread of the wraiths. They were not moving quickly, instead hanging back and waiting for the dread of their presence to—what? Paralyze their victims with terror? Eluréd sat hunched by the fire, with Nellas on one side and Elurín standing on the other, scanning the darkness.

"There," he said finally, gazing into the dark downstream. "There are three this time." His voice did not shake, but his hands were balled into white-knuckled fists.

Daeron also rose to his feet. His eyes shone with ancient starlight as he opened his mouth and began to sing—it was a song of light and life and truth and strength, of revealing secrets and opening eyes that were closed. Eluréd and Nellas also rose, Nellas gripping Eluréd's hand tightly.

While Daeron was singing Eluréd felt lighter and less afraid. But the moment Daeron paused for a breath a reply came like the shrieking wind of a gale, with ugly words of dread and fear and impenetrable darkness. Eluréd could not swallow a cry as he dropped to the ground again, arms going up and around his head. Elurín crouched beside him, stance protective, though he was shaking also.

Daeron began singing again before the wraith ceased and his voice was louder and stronger, with power to shake the ground beneath them or call up a flood from the river if he so chose—and he was letting the wraiths know, telling them and their master in Mordor that a mighty singer of the Eldar still walked the earth, who had known Middle-earth before the Moon and the Sun and who feared not a mere lieutenant of Morgoth. Over their heads the stars blazed. In the east Gil-Estel flashed as though in response, as the moon began to rise over the eastern horizon.

And then Elurín sprang to his feet and joined his voice with Daeron's, weaving shadows through the starlight to reclaim them from the wraiths, stripping them of the power they held over dark places, an echo of the power of Melian that had guarded Doriath for so long.

With one last shriek the wraiths faltered and fled, vanishing into the night and taking the chill of their presence with them. Daeron remained where he was for several minutes, gazing after them, breathing as heavily as though he had run a very long distance. "Thank you," he said finally to Elurín. "They have greater power than I would have expected."

"I don't think you needed the help," Elurín replied. "I just wanted to remind Sauron that the blood of Lúthien still walks the earth."

"Did you learn what you needed?" Eluréd asked once he found his voice again.

"Yes," said Daeron, slowly, as he sat down again by the fire. Nellas added more wood to it, sending sparks swirling up with the smoke. "There are nine of them, I think. They were once Men—kings of Men, leaders in Númenor and elsewhere. But I do not understand where _rings_ come into it."

"Rings?" Nellas, Eluréd, and Elurín chorused.

"Nine for Mortal Men, doomed to die," said Elurín. "So that is what became of them."

Daeron looked baffled at this, and so they had to explain the tale of the war that had destroyed Eregion and laid waste to much of Eriador. Daeron had heard of that, of course, but he had not been in the right part of the world to hear tales of its cause, or of what Sauron had been doing before he revealed himself. "Then what has become of the other rings?" he asked when the tale was done. "The seven for the Dwarves, and the three of the Elves?"

"The Three were never touched by Sauron," said Nellas. "Celebrimbor made them alone—but it was with the knowledge he had gained from Sauron, and so they would fall under the sway of the One if they were used. No one knows what exactly that would mean. All that I know is that they are safe. Perhaps they are in Lindon—that's where I would have sent them. I don't know. At least several of the Dwarven rings were given away to their intended bearers, but it is possible that Sauron recovered others. Until now I don't think anyone has known what became of the Nine. Or at least there have been no rumors."

They left their little camp early in the morning, before the sun rose. Eluréd did not look back toward the river. He would be glad to have the Misty Mountains between them and Mordor again. He did not regret accompanying Daeron, but it had not done as much as he had hoped to conquer the fear that had lodged in his heart like an arrow. Elrond's secluded and safe valley would do more for that, he hoped.

"What are you gong to do after we deliver this news, Daeron?" Elurín asked a few days later, as they camped just within sight of the forest of Lórinand. In the far distance Eluréd thought he could hear the singing of elves. It sounded like a merry song, and his heart lifted to hear it.

"I don't know," said Daeron. "I was thinking of leaving that little glade, anyway. I am interested to see Imladris, and Lindon, and to meet old friends if they are still on this side of the Sea. But what I shall do then, I don't know. I have long been out of the habit of making definite plans."

Nellas laughed. "Eluréd and Elurín have never been in that habit at all," she said. "But I have an idea for your next journey, after our errand is done. There is a part of Ossiriand, south of the Gulf of Lhûn, that Men refuse to travel near, and that Elves do so only rarely. I have been only once, long ago. I think all three of you should go there too."

"What place is this?" Elurín asked. "You've never mentioned it before!"

"You were determined before not to go to Lindon, in case anyone decided to force a crown upon your head," Nellas replied.

"What is the name of this place?" Daeron asked. "It does not sound like a good place, if no one goes there."

"It has kept the name it was given before Beleriand sank," said Nellas. "Dor Firn-i-Guinar."


End file.
